There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names to time.
Grave markers are not high enough
or green,
and sons go far away
to lose the fist
their father's hand will always seem.
I had a friend
who lived and died in mighty silence
and with dignity,
left no book, son or lover to mourn.
Nor is this a mourning song,
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk,
fragrant, dark, and softly white
under the pale of mist.
I name this mountain after him.